


A Mother's Heart

by splendidly_sarah



Category: Marvel
Genre: Motherhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2448764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splendidly_sarah/pseuds/splendidly_sarah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah Rogers was born to be a mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mother's Heart

Sarah Rogers was not a frail woman, nor was she stout or overbearing. She was a small woman, the sort made of knobby knees and sharp elbows in her youth, but slowly grew to something altogether softer. Looking at her in her prime, you would never have assumed her to have been anything other than soft and petite. She had a kindness in her eyes that spoke years beyond what she knew, and a near-constant upturn to her lips which never echoed the hard times she had seen. Her completion was slightly ruddy, exaggerated by an sort of exercise or cold. Those kind eyes were blue, framed by a thin, lightly colored lashes, her smiling lips never painted, nor had she ever had the desire to do so. 

At age twenty she carried the weight of wife and mother, youth's bells chiming alongside her, carrying her swiftly through any situation she found herself in. In her shone a confidence which was hard to find in great leaders, let alone a common woman from the rural outreaches of Ireland. Though, do not let this fool you. This woman was never vain, never proud. She wore her confidence as one might wear shoes. Very few times this confidence truly stand out, just as the shoe which stamps your foot by mistake surely stands out, but just for that moment. The memory, lest they be an impressive pair of shoes, leaves with the pain. 

Her husband, a man quite her opposite, would remind her in a way she thought very inconvenient that she was to quiet not only herself, but that beautiful confidence which was so bright. When she would wear old clothes, he would point out the small pouch of fat on the front of her abdomen, a little thing which marked her a mother, she thought. Having been the scrawny child she was, she was quite thankful for that little fat, and never worked hard to lose it. Besides, when she held her little Steven, she wanted to be sure she was soft. What baby wished to lay on a mother made of bones? No son of hers would have such a fate.

Oh, her boy. It was the reason she woke now, such mournful little cries echoing through the chilled apartment. She wasn't tired--she rarely felt such an emotion, unless she was dealing with doctors, who she'd never had much patience for. 

"Now, now, little one." She would coo in her own language, a tongue Steve would never perfect, though she was so patient in her attempts to teach. "You're doing a mighty fine job of ruckus, you are." She pinned back her pale hair (for she found the little Rogers so dearly loved to pull on it) before leaning over to pick him up. 

Being the vital woman she was, her little baby was so...sickly. "Such a wee little man, you are." She pressed him so lightly to her chest, where cries turned slowly into hiccups, which bounced between little giggles and caterwauling due to the new condition he'd found himself in. "Now get yourself to sleep. Go on." She paced the room, back and forth between the window and the door. "By the time you reach a good age I will have worn a path in your room. Then you can pace yourself to sleep, yes my wee little man?" With a brush of her thumb she whisked away some bubbles he was so fond of making. "Just look at you," She would say, "You are so handsome. Oh, you will be the thing of legends, my dear boy. When you become great, do not forget your old mother, though I'm sure you're to resent me before your teens." She shifted his weight, which brought crying back to his agenda and, after a moment, a song to Sarah's lips.

 _"Tura lura lura, tura lura li, tura lura lura, hush now don't you cry._ " Oh, but her little baby did just that...he cried, and he wailed, but Sarah would smile and press on. "My voice isn't that bad, wee little man." 

_"[Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh](.)_

_[Mo sheoid gan cealg, mo chuid gan tsaoil mhór](.) _   
_[Seothín seo ho, nach mór é an taitneamh](.) _   
_[Mo stóirín na leaba, na chodladh gan brón.](.) _

  
_[A leanbh mo chléibh go n-eirí do chodhladh leat](.) _   
_[Séan is sonas gach oíche do chóir](.) _   
_[Tá mise le do thaobh ag guídhe ort na mbeannacht](.) _   
_[Seothín a leanbh is codail go foill.](.) _   
  
_[Ar mhullach an tí tá síodha geala ](.) _   
_[Faol chaoin re an Earra ag imirt is spoirt](.) _   
_[Seo iad aniar iad le glaoch ar mo leanbh ](.) _   
_[Le mian é tharraingt isteach san lios mór."](.) _

When her song ended, she lay little Steven back in his crib. The Fairy Song, he would call it as he grew, and she, his faithful servant and loving mother, would sing it to him so sweetly, rocking him on her lap as long as she could. Even when he grew old enough to push her away, she learned that he would come to her at night, electing to sleep near her, bidding her to sing The Fairy Song, and she would. 

Many woman are good, and some are even great, but is it ever so rare to find a woman who is both good and great and pure, just as she was. 

**Author's Note:**

> My love for Sarah Rogers knows no bounds, and I only hope that this story serves her justice.


End file.
